


The Rabid Foxes

by krikkiter68



Series: Of Stardust and Rabid Foxes [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Fascist-bashing, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Homophobia, Joe Strummer (mentioned), M/M, Mention of Cannabis Use, Mentions of Past Doctors, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Racism, Punk Music, Punk!Au, Racism, Siouxsie Sioux (mentioned), Slash, The Master was in a band, Violence, do not copy to another site, do not host work on unofficial apps, homophobic abuse, racist abuse, top of the pops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krikkiter68/pseuds/krikkiter68
Summary: A companion piece to 1977.When stranded on Earth, the Master was in a punk band in 1977.  This is how it started.
Relationships: The Master (Dhawan)/Original Male Character
Series: Of Stardust and Rabid Foxes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913803
Comments: 80
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: racism, threat

“Why don’t ya go back ‘ome where you came from?”

Well, he thinks, still snarky even in the grip of terror. Home’s several thousand light years away, so that would certainly be some feat, dear.

The louts are drawing in closer and he strides ahead, shutting his mind against their hard, mean faces, their ugly words, their animal noises, until all at once he finds himself surrounded. With, as ever on Earth, no weapons. He makes a mental note to have a stern word with the Doctor on all of these points. 

He stands still as they advance on him, his hands clenching into fists. He’s getting quite good at fights after years of experience, but he can’t take on four of them. Probably another month in hospital, what a bore, he thinks. Still, he can try and take down one of them.

There’s a sudden roar and screech of tyres directly behind him, and his eyes widen as his pursuers curse and scatter.

“Hey, mate!” shouts a hoarse, young voice. “Jump on, quick!”

He turns to see a black leather clad figure, face obscured by a helmet, on a rather rickety-looking motorbike, temporarily and unconventionally parked on the pavement, engine revving. Without thinking, he clambers onto the seat behind the rider and grips their waist as they rev up and speed off.

Exhilarated, he flashes a V-sign behind his back as they speed away and whoops as an opened can of beer bounces harmlessly off the back wheel.

The gathering dusk is beautiful above them as the rider speeds precariously and alarmingly fast around the vans and Routemasters on Essex Road, Islington. The Master is certainly learning a few expressions he’d never heard before, and he grins. If he survives this, he’ll have to write them down.

Eventually, the bike slows and stutters to a halt, and the rider dismounts, taking his helmet off. The Master finds himself looking into a pair of wide, grey-blue eyes, framed with pale brown lashes, set into a pale, angular, handsome face, the whole ensemble topped off with the reddest and spikiest hair the Master has ever seen.

‘“Hi,” the man says. “My name’s Brian. Brian Young.”

The Master smiles at him, and he can see it’s having an effect already. They shake hands, and he can feel Brian's single pulse trembling.

“Pleased to meet you. My name’s…” and he scans his vast list of suitable Earth titles, “Oscar. Oscar Prasad. Oz, for short.”

Brian nods.

“Nice ta meet you, Oz. Listen, um, I’m at a bit of a loose end, and, and I’ve got a few cans in the fridge. Care to join me?”

“OK,” the Master says, “why not?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Actually, mate,” Brian says, “can I ask you a favour?”

The Master, leaning back on an elderly green armchair, takes another swig of beer from the can. It’s gassy, but not unpleasant. At the same time, his head’s beginning to swim a bit. 

“Of course,” he says, gazing at the heraldic images on the can. “You probably saved my life back then. I owe you one.”

“Right,” Brian says, leaning forward on the sofa, elbows touching his knees. “Can you play guitar?

The Master considers. He’d stolen one of the Doctor’s guitars, back when he was Missy. He knows a few chords. It’s a basement flat, and he can’t stop gazing at the bars on the windows near the ceiling, which strike him as being very weird indeed. He forces himself to look away from them, and back at Brian. Which is no hardship. He’s decided he likes Brian.

“Yeah,” he says, “why do you ask?”

“Jez dropped out last week. We’re looking for someone to replace him.”

The Master smiles. This might be fun.

“Oh well, then. I’m your man.”

Brian’s face breaks into a huge grin.

“Great!” he says, craning forward to shake the Master’s hand. “Welcome on board!”

“I’m not from London, actually,” Brian says, three cans later. “I came over from Ireland. County Cork.”

The Master raises his eyebrows. His brain is buzzing in a pleasant fashion.

“Oh, yeah? Why was that?”

“I...I wasn’t getting on with my family. There, there were a lot of rows. They couldn’t accept me for who I am. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore, so, I left.”

He says the last words with a catch in his voice and looks down at the floor, clearly troubled.

“Go on,” the Master says.

“I…oh, Christ. Listen, Oz, you seem like an understanding guy, and I’m sick of hidin’ it. The thing is…I’m gay,” Brian says.

The Master shrugs.

“And?”

“Blimey, you’re saying that you don’t even care? You’re – you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me,” Brian says. He sounds like he might start to cry.

“What does it matter? Christ, why do humans, I mean, people, give a shit anyway? And whilst we’re on the subject, I’m bisexual,” the Master says, taking another swig of beer. The Master has enjoyed sexual relations with individuals of many genders across all of time and space, but it's technically true. 

“And…do your parents know?” Brian asks, practically open-mouthed. The Master shrugs.

“Of course. They don’t mind a bit. They named me after Oscar Wilde, after all,” the Master says. In the back of his mind, he can see a kindly British Indian couple in late middle age, smiling proudly at him.

Brian takes another sip of beer.

“So, he asks, “is there anyone special in your life at the moment?”

The Master looks solemn.

“There was.”

He feels Brian’s hand touching his.

“What happened?”

The Master looks up at him, and he’s annoyed to feel his eyes welling up.

“She broke my heart,” he says.


	3. Chapter 3

At Brian’s insistence, the Master sleeps in Brian’s bed. Brian himself sleeps on the too-small sofa, his impossibly long legs dangling off to the side, snoring gently in the other room. The Master has a night of fitful sleep, turning back and forth, his dreams crowded with disturbing half-images. In the early hours, the bars on the tiny, high-set single window cast long, eerie shadows, and stir up memories he wants to keep locked down and out of sight.

The next day, Brian lends him an old, studded black leather jacket and a pair of faded but very clean ripped jeans, both far too long for him. The jeans are rather too tight, particularly around his thighs, but from the evidence of the mirror they showcase his crotch and arse to stunning effect. He wears a simple white T shirt underneath the jacket, and black leather Chelsea boots on his feet. On Brian’s smiling advice, he gives himself as close a shave as it’s possible to get with a crap 1970s razor. A soap and water mix would ruin his hair, so he settles for a subtle backcomb and a touch of hairspray for a spiky effect.

He takes the stick of black kohl and outlines his huge dark eyes, before carefully applying two coats of black mascara. Stands back and studies himself, and he’s stunned at how pretty he is. So much so, he feels himself stirring in his jeans. Yeah, he thinks. That works.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Brian had said. “But listen – women are gonna throw themselves at you. Guys, too. Trust me, Oz – you’re gonna have a ball.”

He grins. Fun. It’s been a while since he’s had some fun.

Brian and the Master pick their way over wasteland, through ragwort and broken bricks to the borrowed lock-up that will be their rehearsal room, and push open the rotting, white-painted wooden door.

“Eyyy!” shrieks a voice in the gloom. “’Ello, darlin’! Brian didn’t tell me 'e had such a gorgeous girlfriend!”

“Oh Christ,” Brian mutters.

The Master turns in the direction of the voice.

“Are you talking to me?” he asks.

He can see a small, curly-haired figure in jeans and biker’s jacket sitting on a ledge, beer bottle in hand, their gleeful expression curdling into one of dismay.

“You’re – you’re a bloke? Oh…” the figure splutters.

“Last time I checked, yeah,” the Master says.

“Christ,” the figure says, “I must be losing me touch. Sorry, mate.”

“No need to be,” the Master says, bristling slightly. He’d loved being Missy. Why the apology, he thinks.

“You’re not from round ‘ere, are ya? You’re from Oop North, right?”

“Yeah,” the Master says. “Manchester.”

“Eey oop! I’ll go t’foot of our stairs!” the figure says, chortling. 

“Actually, you’re wrong, man,” a previously-unseen, saturnine young man says, from the shadows. “That’s Yorkshire you're thinking of. He’s from Lancashire.”

“Right,” the Master says, approaching the stranger with outstretched hand. “Lead Guitar.”

“Warren,” intones the young man, his eyes almost obscured by curtains of dark hair. “Bass.”

“An’ you, what’s your name, then?” says the first man. The Master straightens up and looks him straight in the eyes.

“Oscar. Oz, for short. But you can call me The Master.”

“Call you what?!” the young man says, almost choking on his beer.

“Yeah, why not? James Brown – The Godfather. John Entwistle – The Ox. It works.”

“Yeah, yeah. My name’s Steve, by the way, since ya didn’t ask.”

“So sorry,” the Master says, shaking his hand. “You’re the drummer, right?” he adds, with heavy irony. 

Steve grins at him, diabolically.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Sir,” he growls. “You. Absolute. One. Hundred. Per. Cent. Fucking. Space cadet.”

There’s a moment of exquisite tension in which Brian buries his face in his hands and Warren’s coffee mug shatters on the exposed brickwork. And then the Master smiles, and his face lights up the room.

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs. “You’re so right.”

Steve claps him on the back.

“Nice one! You’re weird, but I like ya!”

Brian clears his throat.

“Right, lads,” he says. “Shall we get started?”


	4. Chapter 4

Brian, standing with his elbow propped against the wall, the spiralling phone cord wrapped around his right arm, listens nervously to the voice on the line.

“Really? Siouxsie and the Banshees? We’re supporting them next week? That’s…well, what can I say, that’s bloody amazing! Thanks, mate,” Brian gasps down the phone. 

He turns and gives a thumbs-up to the rest of the band. Warren’s usually expressionless face relaxes into a half-smile.

“Haven’t heard of them,” the Master murmurs.

“Ah, c’mon mate, ya must have done,” Steve says, between slurps at a can of Carlsberg. “Siouxsie Sioux. She’s the one who looks like she’s into chaining people up and whipping them.”

The Master unleashes an evil grin.

“Is she, now? She sounds nice. I’d like to meet her!”

“Yeah, bet ya would, ya perve,” Steve intones.

“You wouldn’t want me any other way,” the Master says, batting his eyelashes at Steve, before standing up and strutting away. 

Steve throws a cymbal at him. The Master swerves to avoid it, laughing. He stumbles forward and his hip collides with Brian’s.

“Yeah, great news. Thanks again, John,” Brian says, into the receiver. He glances down at the Master, and smiles. Their eyes lock, and the Master smiles back.

They go out to Baron’s Disco that evening to celebrate. The door staff cast wary eyes at their ripped jeans and studded leather jackets, but Brian’s friendly smile makes them smile back at him. The Master’s decided he really likes the way Brian’s smile makes his big eyes crinkle at the edges. He struts into the club behind Brian, with Steve and Warren swaggering and sloping behind him.

The club’s filled with gyrating bodies, many of them scantily-clad and remarkably attractive. The Master blinks up at the ceiling and finds himself mesmerised by the silver spinning glitter balls and their whirling discs of dancing reflected light. He can’t help but be reminded of the Toclafane.

He feels an arm being draped around his shoulders, then looks up into Brian’s grey-blue eyes. 

“You all right, Oz?” Brian says.

“Yeah, fine. This is…different,” the Master says.

“Know what ya mean. Bit garish, yeah?”

“Ah, I dunno,” the Master says, smiling. “Can’t resist a bit of extravagance, myself.”

Brian’s smile widens, and the Master’s hearts speed up a little.

The bar is heaving, and pretty quickly the band lose each other in the throng. The Master, standing shoulder to shoulder with the heaving crowd, feels someone tap him on the arm. He turns to see an immensely tall man, dressed in a leather cap, leather waistcoat and very little else smiling down at him.

“Hi there,” the man says in a breathy tone, “Cute jacket. Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

The Master smiles at him, and he giggles.

“OK,” the Master says. “Go on, then.”

Some twenty minutes later, the Master’s head is spinning like the mirror balls on the ceiling.

“Sweetheart,” his dancing partner coos loudly over the music, “what part of Paradise have you flown in from?”

“The lower circle,” the Master drawls. 

The crowd cheers as the opening, syncopated strains of “I Feel Love” thud out of the speakers. 

“Back in a moment,” the Master says, turning to go. “Gonna get some air.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” his partner shrieks.

The Master blows him a kiss and makes his way through the spinning crowd.

The roof terrace is deserted, and the Master makes his way forward to the railing, leaning heavily on it. He studies the far away stars in the night sky and thinks about the Doctor and whether he can ever forgive her. 

“S’cuse me,” a voice says, cutting through his musings, “mind if I join you? It’s getting a bit hot down there.”

“No problem,” the Master says, a tad irritably.

He turns, and his mouth drops open at the sight of the tall, brown-suited man in front of him. The spiky hair, the smirk, the glitter of mischief in those dark eyes. That maddening mouth.

“…Doctor?” the Master whispers.


	5. Chapter 5

The Doctor’s dark moon-wide eyes grow wider still.

“Oh, hullo! How did you know my name?”

“Doctor,” the Master says, “don’t you recognise me?”

“Uum. No, sorry. Perhaps…oh, I dunno, maybe we’re meeting in the wrong order? Seems to be happening a lot to me, lately,” the Doctor says, and giggles. His cheeks are flushed and he seems a little drunk. “But you can call me…Doctor Disco. If you like.”

The Master stares at him, before remembering he’s installed a low-level telepathic blocking device in his psyche to conceal his identity from scientists. Now he’s had a few drinks he can’t remember how to dismantle it.

The Doctor swaggers towards him, champagne bottle in hand. The Master sees he’s wearing a pink lei around his neck, and his right eyelid starts twitching.

“Aaaanyway, no reason we can’t have a drink out ‘ere, underneath the stars, eh? Ooh, wait,” the Doctor says, reaching into a capacious coat pocket and retrieving two champagne flutes. 

The Doctor continues to babble as he fills up the glasses, but the Master can’t hear him anymore. Rage seems to be pouring into him and filling him from the soles of his boots, fizzing and spluttering up towards his head.

You left me, he thinks, furiously. Left me years ago, abandoned me to the Nazis, left me to be fucking tortured. Left me to starve when I escaped, left me to live off roadkill, left me to sail to Britain, all alone. Left me to miserable bedsits and rations and unemployment and shark landlords, for years and fucking years. And don’t even get me started on the beatings. Gave up telling the police ‘cos I’d just get called a liar and worse then beaten up in a cell. 

And now I’m finally having a reasonable time, he rages inwardly, you decide to swan back into my life, like you always do. Don’t you even think about offering me a drink, you cunt, you absolute CUNT – 

“Drink?” the Doctor asks, gently, offering him a full champagne flute.

The Master marches forward, grabs the champagne flute out of the Doctor’s hand, then drains it in a single gulp. He throws the flute to the ground, and it shatters in a wide pattern across the roof terrace floor.

“Ooh. Someone’s thirsty – “

The Doctor’s words are cut off by the Master’s lips claiming his in a fierce kiss and the bottle and glass shatter on the floor. The Master snarls into the Doctor’s mouth, as he grapples with him, his possessive hands grabbing at his neck, his back, his arse. After a pause, the Doctor returns the kiss, his long arms snaking down the Master’s back and down to his hips. The Master breaks away to nip at the Doctor’s neck. The Doctor groans and angles his long neck back, allowing the Master better access.

“You know, most people at least buy me dinner first,” the Doctor mutters.

“Don’t you like it?” the Master growls against the Doctor’s skin, biting harder.

“Didn’t say that, did I. Ohhh…” the Doctor gasps as the Master sucks hard, marking him.

Tears prick the back of the Master’s eyelids as he rocks his hips forward against the Doctor’s firm thigh. He’s desperately hard, now, and he reaches down to cup the big, stiff curve of Doctor’s cock over his pinstriped trousers. The Doctor turns his head to look around, alert, a hunted deer.

“Gotta be quick,” he murmurs.

“Do it, then,” the Master hisses.

He grabs the Doctor’s ridiculous hair and yanks his head down, kissing him savagely. The Doctor responds by unzipping the Master’s unfeasibly tight jeans and releasing him into the cool, merciful night air. 

The Master moans unashamedly as the Doctor starts stroking him, hard and fast. He plunges a hand underneath the waistband of the Doctor’s trousers, unbuttoning him with expert fingers, the way he used to. 

He retrieves his hand, spits in his palm and grips the Doctor’s cock, stroking underneath the head with his thumb. The Doctor gasps, bucking up into his touch, and the Master can feel the shudder building up within him. He stares up into the Doctor’s huge, beseeching dark eyes.

“Bitch,” he hisses, thrusting up into the Doctor’s undulating grip, and gods, he’d forgotten how good this incarnation was at this. “Come for me…”

The Doctor gives a high-pitched moan, his eyes closing, and all of a sudden he looks so much like her, so much like his blonde-haired Doctor. He feels like throwing the Doctor onto the floor, hitching their legs over his shoulders and fucking them, but he’s too far gone, now, and nothing matters anymore.

“You’re beautiful…” the Doctor moans, and the Master snarls up at the sky as he comes, hard, against the Doctor’s palm. 

When he comes back to himself, he finds himself locked tightly against the Doctor, his right hand full of the Doctor’s warm cum. Feels the Doctor’s sharp chin resting against his shoulder, rasping breath in his ear. The Master breaks away, and their eyes meet.

“Remember my face,” he snaps. He pulls a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wipes his right hand before zipping himself up. He turns and leaves without another word, back to the dancefloor and to Brian.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in this chapter are from "Pale Blue Eyes" by The Velvet Underground. No profit has been made from this fiction.

Three weeks later, the Master is reclining on Brian’s sofa, his black Rickenbacker against his chest, picking out chords.

“Thought of you as my mountaintop,” he sings quietly,  
“Thought of you as my peak,  
Thought of you as everything  
I’ve had, but couldn’t keep…”

A key jangles loudly in the front door lock, and seconds later Brian bursts through the door, grinning from ear to ear, carrying a stash of magazines and a large, full carrier bag.

“Hey, mate!” Brian shouts. “You’ll never guess!”

“Haven’t a clue,” the Master says, smiling up at him. “Do tell me.”

“We’re only at Number 30 in the charts!” Brian yells, beaming.

“Fuck me,” the Master says. “Really?” He takes off the strap and lays the guitar on the floor next to the sofa.

“Yeah, really,” Brian says, grinning. “Top of the Pops beckons, my friend! I’ve brought some beer to celebrate. Come on,” he says, setting the magazines down on the floor, “let’s see what they say.”

“What,” Brian says, reading the NME about five beers down the line, “the fuck is this hack going on about?”

“Fuck knows,” the Master says, peering over Brian’s shoulder and feeling the flush of Brian’s warm cheek against his own. “Tried to read that paragraph five times. My eyes have died of fucking bored confusion.”

“That’s nearly it, now,” Brian says, tipping all but one of the magazines onto the floor. “There’s just this one left, now.”

It’s a magazine for teenage girls, with a smiling, wholesome-looking woman in a yellow floral dress on the cover. Brian flicks it open to the middle pages, then giggles wildly.

“Fuck me, Oz! You’re one of their Hunks of the Fortnight!”

“Well, thank you,” the Master drawls. “But I’ll think you find I’m actually Hunk of the Century, darling.”

“Oz, I’m serious! Look!” Brian yells, shoving the magazine over to him.

The Master finds himself looking at a large colour photograph of himself, sitting on the floor with his arm draped over his guitar, glaring out at an invisible, adoring audience.

“Well, can’t say I blame them,” he says, pouting. “I do look gorgeous.”

“Christ, no one could accuse you of false modesty, could they? Let’s read out what they say about you,” Brian says, snatching it out of the Master’s grip.

“’And now for our fourth hunk of the fortnight…’” Brian reads aloud.

“Only fourth?” the Master snorts. 

“...he's the mysterious tall, dark and handsome stranger known only as The Master…’ Well, they’ve got that bit wrong, for a start. You’re not tall.”

“Fuck off,” the Master says, laughing, “I’m taller than Steve.”

“Everyone’s taller than Steve. ‘Guitar player for rising stars The Rabid Foxes, we think he’s hot, spicy and very, very tasty!’ Christ almighty, does someone get paid to write that shit?” Brian snorts.

“Apparently so,” The Master says, grinning. “Ah, c’mon, it’s appreciation, I won’t knock it. Go on.”

“’Bet you’re all losing yourselves in his big, dark eyes, aren’t you, girls?’ Brian reads out in a breathy, high-pitched voice. ‘In fact, we reckon you all want him to whisk you away to PARADISE!’” he shrieks. 

The Master, in the middle of taking another swig of beer, starts choking and spluttering with laughter. Brian claps him on the back.

“Why didn’t they chuck in a reference to you riding through the sky on a flying carpet and have done with it? Jesus!” Brian says.

“Oh, didn’t you know, darling? I’ve got one rolled up in your room,” the Master says, giggling. “I could show it to you, if you like…”

He leans on Brian and pokes him under the arms, tickling him and gradually flattening him against the sofa. Brian shrieks and laughs.

“Christ! I’ll take you to fucking Paradise in a minute if you don’t stop that…” 

“That a promise, dear?” the Master says, grinning down at him.

He’s got Brian’s wrists pinned down, now, and their eyes lock. Minutes seem to pass, their harsh breathing filling the room. Their expressions change, and soften, and they lean towards each other. Their lips touch.


	7. Chapter 7

The Master moans into Brian’s mouth as he kisses him, closing his eyes as he feels Brian’s long fingers twining through his thick hair. He clasps his arms around Brian’s shoulders and holds him tightly as his kisses deepen, and it’s the closest thing he’s felt to peace for many years. Someone likes him, goddammit.

Brian breaks away, gasping for air and smiling like all his birthdays have come at once, and the Master’s reminded that, as a human, Brian doesn’t have a respiratory bypass system.

“Fucking hell, Oz,” he gasps. “You’re incredible.”

The Master bats his eyelashes at him and smiles.

“Oh, I knooow,” he drawls.

He positions himself against Brian’s long, lanky form until their crotches make contact, and grinds. He feels Brian’s cock against his through their jeans, hard and ready. Brian groans, his head arching back as the Master pulls his T shirt out of his jeans and runs a hand up his smooth, lean abdomen. 

“Christ, Oz,” Brian moans. “I want you so bad.”

“’Course you do,” Oz says, earning a giggle.

“Christ, you’re ridiculous,” Brian gasps, laughing. The Master kisses him again, then spends a moment just gazing into Brian’s bright, sea-coloured eyes.

“Whatever you say,” Oz says, then clambers off him and stands up. 

He hooks his arms underneath Brian’s lanky form then lifts him. Brian yells in surprise.

“What…what the hell you doin’, Oz?” he shrieks.

“Why, don’t you know?” the Master says, grinning. “I’m a prince from an exotic far-away land, and I’m whisking you away to Paradise…” he says, as he carries Brian into the bedroom.

“You’re a complete fucking lunatic, that’s what you are,” Brian says, between giggles.

“Defy me, would you?” the Master says, pretending to sound stern. “I’ll teach you…”

Brian shouts in surprise as the Master throws him onto the bed. The Master leaps up onto the bed and straddles him.

“And you,” he says, seizing Brian’s T shirt as he sits up, “my disobedient lad, are wearing far too many clothes.”

They wrestle with each other, Brian pulling the Master’s jeans off him as the Master practically wrenches Brian’s T shirt off.

“Purple socks?” the Master hears, as Brian pulls his jeans off him. “Christ, what are you like?”

“You’re about to find out,” the Master retorts.

Brian pulls his socks off, then scoots back up the bed. The Master heads downwards and unzips Brian’s jeans and pulls his briefs down. He feels a flush of pride at how stiff he’s made him.

He takes the entirety of Brian’s cock into his mouth and down his throat in one smooth motion, and Brian practically levitates off the bed in response. Brian’s fingers seize his hair once more, and the Master glances up at him. Suddenly, he can see what Brian’s seeing: the huge dark eyes, the soft lips surrounding him, devouring, claiming, and it’s so good…

He lets out a groan as he deep-throats Brian, his mouth sliding up and down the smooth, hard cock in front of him, until Brian holds his head still. He looks up at Brian and sees him smiling, his face reddened.

“Oz,” he moans. “Hold on. Any more, and I’ll come.”

The Master lets Brian’s flushed, weeping cock slip from his lips.

“OK,” he says. “What do you want to do?”

“Just fuck me,” Brian sighs, lying back and spreading his legs.

“Sure,” the Master says. “Hold on.”

He reaches down onto the floor and reaches for his leather jacket, retrieving a condom and a tube of lubricant from the top right pocket. Brian looks at him, quizzically.

“Hang on,” he says, “We don’t need one of those.”

The Master knows it’s only a few years before the HIV epidemic ravages the world and he’ll be damned if Brian’s going to be one of its victims.

“Yeah, we do,” he says. He looks down at Brian’s open, pliant face. “Do as your Master says. Don’t fuck anyone or let anyone fuck you without one of these again, understand?”

“Whatever you say…Master,” Brian breathes out. The Master ruffles his hair.

“Good boy. Now, put it on me.”

Brian tears open the condom packet then rolls it down the Master’s cock with shaking hands, before slathering lube along the dark, pulsing length.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs. “It’s huge. Will I even be able to walk afterwards?”

“I very much doubt it,” the Master says, smiling at him. “I’m gonna wreck you, dear.”

“Well, aren't you the romantic bastard,” Brian gasps, lying down and spreading his long legs. “Oh Christ. Yes, please.”

The Master presses himself against Brian’s chest, kissing him deeply, before lining himself up with Brian’s arse and thrusting gently. Brian cries out and arches against the bed. The Master keeps still, his hand resting over Brian’s racing heart until he feel Brian relaxing around the head of his cock.

“Think you can take me, darling?” he husks in Brian’s ear.

“Gonna have a damn good go at it,” Brian murmurs.

The Master thrusts slowly into Brian’s tight heat, not stopping until he’s deep inside, balls flush against Brian’s tight buttocks. It feels so good, and it feels better still when Brian’s arms wrap tightly around him, when Brian kisses him.

“God, Master,” Brian moans, between kisses, “please fuck me.”

“As you wish,” the Master murmurs.

He pulls back, as slowly as he can, before thrusting in again, equally slowly. Brian’s bucking backwards, trying to get him to speed up. He grabs Brian’s wrists, pinning him down.

He thrusts again, ever so slowly, enjoying Brian’s writhing, excitement spiking from the base of his spine to the tip of his cock. Bends forward and kisses Brian again.

“I’m close,” he moans in Brian’s ear. “I want you to come with me.”

“God, yeah,” Brian gasps. “Please…”

He raises himself up onto his haunches, hauling Brian’s legs over his shoulders, licks his right palm and strokes Brian’s cock in quick, urgent strokes. 

“Oh, God! Master! OZ!” Brian wails.

He thrusts faster and faster as Brian bucks against him, and stars burst in his head as he comes with a roar. Seconds later, he feels Brian’s warm cum spurt across his palm, and he collapses against him, spent. 

The only sound in the room is their rasping breathing, as they recover, their nostrils full of the musky, sweaty scent of each other. The Master closes his eyes as Brian strokes his face.

“You’re wonderful, Oz,” he says, softly.

The Master says nothing, just smiles and lays his head on Brian’s chest, where he can feel his single, tender heart pounding away.


	8. Chapter 8

One week later, they’re waiting in the wings in the Top of the Pops studio, peering around the door at the crowd within. Onstage, Legs and Co are performing a very literal dance interpretation of “Float On” by The Floaters.

“Blimey,” Brian says, taking a swig of beer, “it’s smaller in there than I thought it’d be. Steve,” he says, with a laugh, “stop drooling!”

“Can’t ‘elp it, mate,” Steve says, leering at the dancers. “They’re gorgeous.”

“’Cancer!’ The Master shrieks camply, sing-speaking along to the record. ‘And my name’s LARRY!’” He breaks down into giggles. A passing technician shoots him a dirty look.

“Christ, man,” Warren intones, “You on something?”

“Sorry, love,” the Master says, still smiling. “Nerves.”

Brian smiles and hands him the can.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Warren moans later, as “Fanfare for the Common Man” rings out, “Emerson, Lake and Palmer? Really?”

“Aww, I like this one,” the Master says, taking another swig.

“Yeah, you would,” Steve says. “Weirdo.” The Master flicks him a V-sign.

“You’re on next,” says another technician. “Make your way to the stage. And for God’s sake, behave yourselves.”

The Master grins.

They’re on stage and the TV camera trundles towards them, the lights shine hot and bright on their faces. Brian throws the mic in the air, catches it and starts miming along to their record.

“Beaten in an alley, down in Ally Pally…”

The Master throws a dramatic pose with his guitar, head back and legs far apart. He considers windmilling his right arm like Pete Townshend, but there isn’t enough room on stage. 

“Oblivion – you’ve got me on my knees,

Oblivion – ‘cause all you do is tease…”

The Master thinks about the fuss made a few years ago when Bowie draped an arm around Mick Ronson’s shoulder during “Starman” on the same show. What an uptight, puritanical little nation, he thinks. Time to give them something to talk about.

He sidles up next to Brian and mimes the backing vocals. Still miming his guitar, he reaches out with his left hand and grips one of Brian’s buttocks.

“Oblivion – you make me wanna cry,

Oblivion – you make me wanna die…”

The record fades away and the crowd applauds, many of them looking confused. The camera swings around to the DJ presenter and the act on the next stage.

“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day!” the presenter chortles. “And now for something a bit more cheerful, and dare I say it, more melodic – here’s Brotherhood of Man, at Number 4 this week with ‘Angelo’!”

The stage manager storms up to them, looking furious.

“What the hell was that?!” he snaps. “Get off this stage, right now!”

“Aw, c’mon,” Brian says, looking genuinely hurt. “Can’t we stay and meet Donna Summer? I love her!”

“No, you fucking can’t! Get out, all of you!”

Outside, they’re practically ambushed by excited girls wanting autographs. They smile and sign away. Steve’s on his own, smoking, looking unimpressed. Finally, he walks up to the Master.

“Can I ‘ave a word?” he asks. He sounds serious, for a change.

“Back in a minute, ladies,” the Master says, winking at the crowd of girls.

They walk around a corner. Steve looks at the ground, then up at him.

“I’ll just come out an’ say it. Are you and Brian fucking?”

The Master glares at him. 

“I think you'll find that’s none of your business, Steve,” he growls.

“Ooh. Touchy. Listen, I don’t care if you are,” Steve says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Just, don’t break ‘is heart, OK? He’s a fucking good bloke.”

He walks away. The Master stares after him.

“Yeah. He is,” he murmurs.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s sometime in the afternoon on a sunny day in the late summer of 1977. Brian’s driving the band down the M1 back to London in their tour van, and the Master’s never felt so bored in his lives. He fiddles with his safety belt, which strikes him as an affront to his personal freedom, and stares through the window. Grassy green bank, road, bridge, grassy green bank, road, bridge…he’s hating it.

He glances around him. It’s like being in a small, mobile prison, he thinks. Warren’s asleep in the passenger seat, and he really envies the guy’s ability to fall asleep instantly, anywhere. It’s probably due to the immense amount of cannabis that Warren smokes daily, he thinks. 

Steve is sitting in the seat next to him, head rested against one of the tiny windows. Eventually, he draws his wallet out of his pocket, and looks inside it, and smiles. For the sake of something to do, the Master looks over at him. 

“What’s that?”

For the first time since they’ve met, Steve gives him a smile untouched by irony or derision.

“Photo of my niece. Ain’t she pretty?”

He shows the Master a picture of a nine-year-old girl in a florid purple and turquoise dress that’s probably made of polyester. Her bright copper hair is done up in pigtails with blue bows, and her arms are folded. She looks defiant, and a little sad.

“Little tearaway,” Steve says fondly. “Won’t do a thing ‘er mum tells ‘er to do. Good for ‘er. I mean, my sister’s a good sort, when you get to know ‘er, but Gawd, she’s got a stick up ‘er arse, know what I mean?”

The Master considers his reply. Humans can get a bit defensive about their relatives, he thinks.

“What’s your niece called?” he asks.

“Donna,” says Steve.

The Master frowns. Young as the girl is, he could swear he’s seen her before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter, but I like the idea that Steve is Donna's uncle and Sylvia Noble's wayward younger brother...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Homophobia, racism.

One week later, they’re playing a gig as part of a punk Battle of the Bands event in central London. 

“You’re kidding me,” the Master murmurs as they’re waiting to go on. “They might spit at us? That’s disgusting!”

“’Fraid so,” Brian says, laughing at the Master’s horrified expression.

“They’d better not…” the Master says, his hands balling into fists. Brian lays a gentle hand on his arm, and he melts slightly.

“No fights, OK? We’re doing really well, so far.”

Luckily for everyone involved, the gig goes well, the crowd behave themselves and the Master avoids getting into a fist fight with anyone. Excited young women invade the stage at the end, grappling with a giggling Brian and a grinning Master, though not with the painfully shy Warren, who flees the stage at the sight of them. Not a single woman hugs Steve, and he kicks the bass drum over in protest.

They decide to hang around after the gig, and chat to the other bands. Siouxsie Sioux is funny and sexy and the Master can’t take his eyes off her. She spends quite a long time chatting to Brian, making him laugh like a drain. Steve, watching, puts an arm round the Master’s shoulder.

“Jealous, are ya?” he asks.

“Of whom, darling?” the Master asks, pouting. Steve almost chokes on his beer with laughter. 

The evening wears on, more bands perform and more beer is drunk. They have an enjoyable chat with the clever and charming Joe Strummer, then enjoy a superb set from Ian Dury and the Blockheads. Afterwards, they weave through the crowd towards the bar. 

“Backs to the wall, lads,” someone sneers. The Master whirls around to see four mean-faced, shaven-headed young men glaring at them.

“I beg your pardon?” he hisses. 

Brian places a hand on his arm.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “We don’t want any trouble. Let’s get out of here.”

“Do you really think we’d want to have sex with any of you?” the Master snaps at the troublemakers. 

“Too many of your sort in this country,” another of the youths says menacingly, stepping forward. “Coming over ‘ere, takin’ our jobs. Enoch was right.”

“Hey!” Steve says, stepping forward, fists clenched. “You leave ‘im alone, ya racist twat!” Warren nods.

The Master glances at Brian, then back at the youths. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were carrying knives. He places his arms around Steve and Warren’s shoulders and escorts them to the bar, following Brian.

“Thanks lads,” he says, “I can look after myself.”

He catches up with Brian at the bar. 

“Got a better idea,” he murmurs. “There’s a rooftop terrace that’s still open. Fancy coming up for a bit?”

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. Brian smiles widely in response.

“Best idea I’ve heard this evening,” he says as he pays for his pint. “Yeah, let’s do it.”


	11. Chapter 11

Outside the venue, the early autumn air is cool and clear, and the sun is setting in a startling crimson orb over the horizon. The sky is golden, inlaid with vivid pink clouds. A sky of fire. The Master pauses, and inhales. Sometimes, he thinks, just sometimes, this planet’s a beautiful place.

Brian lays a hand on his shoulder.

“You OK, Oz?”

The Master turns to face him, smiling widely. 

“Never better. C’mon, let’s find it.”

The roof terrace is at the top of an iron spiral staircase. Judging by the buddleia, weeds and moss, it hasn’t been used in a while. The Master follows Brian up the stairs, feasting his eyes on the taut buttocks in front of him. Unable to resist, he reaches out and gives them a firm smack. Brian yelps.

“Oww, you bastard!” he says, giggling. “I’ll get you back for that!”

“Please do,” the Master purrs back at him.

In no time at all, they’ve reached the top, and they pick their way around the roof terrace, looking around. The Master gazes out over the skyline. Brian drapes an arm over his shoulder.

“Beer?” he murmurs, handing the Master an open bottle of beer.

“Thanks, love,” the Master says, taking it from him. “Cheers.”

He chinks the bottle against Brian’s own, and they both take a swig. Far beneath them, they can hear the thud of bass and drums and the distant rumble of traffic, but up here, it’s just the two of them. The Master stares into the distance.

“Oz?” Brian says, gently.

“Yeah?”

“Do you miss her?”

The Master considers the question. Of course he does, and she’s the last person he wants to talk about. He drains his bottle, places it down on a ledge.

“Listen, I’m really fine with it. I mean, if you’re still in love with her – “

The Master turns.

“Shut up,” he says softly.

He grabs Brian and kisses him roughly, pressing him against the railing. After a second, Brian kisses him back, arching against the Master’s body with a groan. 

“Fuck, Oz, what are you doin’? Anyone could see us…”

The Master places a long forefinger against Brian’s lips.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, grinning wickedly. “Why don’t you try living a little, hmm?” He cups Brian’s erection over his jeans, and squeezes gently as he kisses Brian again. 

“OK, you bastard, You’ve just persuaded me,” Brian gasps.

They kiss frantically as they unzip each other’s jeans, fingers digging through layers of cloth until their hands contact hard flesh.

“Do we need condoms for this, too?” Brian asks. The Master kisses him.

“No, dear. Not for this.”

Far beneath them, The Damned are beginning their set, the thunderous drums heralding ‘New Rose’. The Master grasps Brian’s cock and starts stroking him hard and fast. He gasps into Brian’s mouth as Brian starts stroking him, too, then grins as he has an idea.

“Brian…” he husks, against Brian’s ear.

“Uhhhhh, Christ, that’s good, mate…yeah?” Brian moans.

The Master nods down at the pavement beneath.

“Bet you a fiver I can come further than you?”

Brian laughs.

“OK, you’re on!”

They face forward, pressing against the railing as they stroke each other’s cocks, faster and faster, turning their faces to kiss and bite at each other’s lips, their necks. Brian fastens his lips on the Master’s neck and sucks, hard.

“Fuck, yeah,” the Master grinds out. “Give me love bites. Give the fuckers something to write about…”

“Fuck, Oz. I’m close…” Brian gasps, hips stuttering into the Master’s grip.

There’s a commotion on the pavement beneath them.

“…and fucking stay out, you fascist bastards! You’re barred!” someone yells.

The Master yelps, his hips canting upwards.

“Fuck, I’m coming - !” he manages. Brian gasps beside him as they come together, their cum arcing through the air.

They cling together, gasping for breath as they recover.

“Fucking hell!” they hear someone yell from the street below. “Is that spunk on me jacket?”

They look down to see the four skinheads from earlier, squealing and recoiling from their own clothing in disgust.

Laughing, the Master and Brian run back towards the stairs, hurriedly zipping themselves up.

“Well,” Brian laughs, breathlessly, “who won?”

“Do you know what, darling?” the Master grins. “I think we can call that a draw.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ties in with '1977'. High drama ahead...

It’s late October, and the band are preparing to go onstage in London. There’s a strange atmosphere tonight and they’re all feeling it. Elvis Presley and Marc Bolan, two great rock icons, have died in recent months, and there’s a feeling of sad menace unrelated to the strong winds and dark skies outside.

They watch from the wings as their support act struggles through their set. They’re doing their best, but they’re quickly drowned out by the chanting and stamping from the audience. The young singer yelps as he’s hit by a flying bottle.

“Fucking cowards,” Steve growls. “They’re just kids, leave ‘em alone!”

“Fuck,” Warren intones, his face pale. “I don’t feel well.”

Brian puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll get through this fast as we can. Don’t worry. Oz?” Brian says.

The Master turns to face him.

“S’OK, Brian, dear,” he says, his jaw clenched. “I’ve seen worse.”

They set up on stage, trying not to look directly at the audience, which seems to comprise of clones of the skinheads who threatened them in the summer. The Master swallows hard. Much as he hates to admit it to himself, he’s feeling afraid now.

They launch into the fastest number they have, a speedy, cranked-up version of the song from the lemonade advert on TV. Brian dodges a couple of bottles, but Warren isn’t so lucky and gets hit in the forehead. He looks as if he might cry. Sweat’s running down the Master’s back as he surveys the ugly, heaving crowd, fear mixing with rising, unstoppable rage.

The song ends, to jeers and catcalls, as they swing immediately into ‘Oblivion.” The Master’s playing as loud and fast as he can, and the rest of the band have no trouble in joining him, they just want to get out of there. Loud as the song is, the chanting and stamping get louder until it’s drowning them out.

“SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL! SIEG HEIL!...”

The Master feels like his brain’s on fire. Suddenly, he’s back in the camp the Nazis sent him to. The starvation, the torture, the electric shocks burning his feet, the tattoo they forced on him. The crowd start throwing Nazi salutes towards the stage, and he feels like killing the lot of them.

One of them hauls himself up on stage and lurches towards them. Brian, seeing him, tries to swerve, but the stranger punches him squarely in the face. He falls to the floor, groaning. A red mist descends over the Master’s vision.

“HEY!” he screams. “I think you’ll find I’m a better target, dear!”

He can see Brian, still on the floor, nose blooded, gazing beseechingly at him as Warren and Steve help him to his feet, but he’s too angry to care for the moment.

The man twists around and approaches, knuckles weirdly close to the ground. Like the stinking ape he’s descended from, thinks the Master.

“Go back to where you came from, ya queer foreign cunt,” the man growls. The Master smiles diabolically at him.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, still smiling. “And I’m proud of it.”

He raises his guitar over his head and smashes it over the fascist's head, knocking him out. Then raises his head and stares at the crowd. 

He reaches into his mind and lowers his perception filter just long enough for them to see who he really is. The noise stops as they gawp at him.

“WELL?” the Master screams, raising his guitar over his head again. “Want some, do ya? YA FUCKIN’ NAZI CUNTS!”

He screams at the top of his voice, leaps offstage and charges at the fleeing mob, swinging his guitar like a flail.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left comments and feedback on this story! I've really enjoyed writing it and I may revisit these characters for one-off adventures in the future. xx

It’s 2020, and the Master is walking down a quiet, tree-lined street in Crouch End with Brian’s address in his pocket. They’ve reconnected on social media and Brian’s invited him over. Nice area, the Master thinks, looking around. Brian’s been married to Colin, a well-known playwright, for several years now. Brian works in TV production. By all accounts, they’ve done well for themselves.

He finds the smart, red-brick Edwardian terraced house where they live, and rings the doorbell. After a short pause, Brian answers the door, and his eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. His hair is white, now, rather than red, and thinning at the temples, but he’s aged very well. His face breaks into that wonderful, familiar smile, his eyes crinkling up at the edges.

“Hello, darling,” drawls the Master.

“Oz!” cries Brian, as the two embrace each other. “Fucking hell, mate! You’ve got a portrait in your attic, I swear!”

“Of course. I’m not called Oscar for nothing.”

“Thought so,” Brian said, breaking away and beaming. “Like the beard. It suits you. Come and meet Colin.”

“So, you hear from the others much?” the Master says later, cradling his glass of after-dinner brandy.

“Now and again. Warren’s still studying. He’s being doing that since the band broke up. Perpetual student,” Brian says, with a laugh.

“He is that. Steve?” The Master says, sipping his brandy.

“Great-uncle Steve, you mean,” says Brian. Colin slips a hand into his and he gives it a squeeze. “He’s always been devoted to his niece. Anyway, she's got a daughter – she’ll be, what? Nine now. Angelica, she’s called. He’s giving her drumming lessons. She practices every day, driving her parents round the bend,” Brian says, laughing.

The evening wears on, and they laugh, and reminisce, and talk about the people they’ve loved, and, in some cases, lost. They talk openly about their time together, and the Master’s touched by the looks Brian and Colin exchange with each other. There’s no jealousy there, just devotion. Humans can be so beautifully uncomplicated, sometimes, the Master thinks.

“Who would have thought, back then,” Colin says at one point, “we’d be a couple of old farts, sitting here, about to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary?”

Brian shakes his head, smiling.

“It would be unimaginable, darling.”

“Age doesn’t seem to have withered you at all, though,” Colin says to the Master. “You look incredible. What’s your secret?”

The Master shrugs in a pleased fashion.

“Genes, dear. It’s all in the genes.”

Brian swallows the rest of his brandy.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s show you the rest of the house.”

They round the corridor into the study, where Brian does most of his work. It’s cluttered with papers and books crammed onto every surface, and the walls are lined with framed photos. One of them in particular, in the centre of the far wall, catches the Master’s eye, and he can’t stop staring at it.

It’s that photo of him from the teenage girls' magazine that they laughed over all those years ago, the photo of him sitting artfully in an alley with an arm draped over his guitar, staring defiantly at the lens. The Master gulps. He’d thought he looked tough in that photo. Looking at it again, he sees only vulnerability, fear and excitement, and his eyes start welling up. He feels Brian’s friendly hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, mate. Nothin’ to cry about, eh?”

The Master takes a deep breath, composing himself, then smiles at them both.

“It was…it was such a wonderful time. Thank you.”

They chat deep into the night, more vintage wine is consumed and the Master ends up sleeping over on their rather luxurious sofa bed. After coffee and fresh rolls at breakfast, he bids farewell to them.

“Keep in touch, won’t you?” Brian says, at the gate.

“Of course,” the Master says.

“Did you ever hear from her again?” Brian says.

“I’m still looking,” the Master says. 

“I hope you find her,” Brian says, as they embrace. “Good luck, mate.”

“Bye, mate,” Oz says. “Bye, Colin,” he says, with a wave to Brian’s husband in the doorway.

Later

The Master wakes in the Doctor’s bedroom, his face buried in her bright hair. He’s had another dream, where he’s playing guitar onstage with The Rabid Foxes, and he smiles. He’s had rather a lot of dreams about them recently.

He’s been composing a letter in his head to write to Brian. Of course, he’ll tell him about how he’s reconnected with the Doctor. It’s just a question of wording it.

But he won’t write it just yet. He wraps his arms around the Doctor and curls into her warmth, murmuring in contentment as he lets his mind drift up into the stars.


End file.
